There are 27 Letters in the Galalunan Alphabet
by MissBedouin
Summary: A long title for a collection of Sym-bionic Titan shorts based around the 26 letters of our alphabet  and one from Galaluna's. Just wait and see how that one pans out. Ilanca preferences. Humor, drama, romance,...anthropology. E: Echelon. T for safety.
1. A: Apology

You just get used to that sort of thing.

What? Absolutely no personality?

_Maybe. _

You're not talking?

_Another misunderstanding. _

Fine, Lance. Fine!

* * *

She didn't slam the door this time, or abuse the floor with her heels. But Lance still skipped dinner. She was complaining about his sleeping quarters this time. Why? He had no idea—she was free to personalize everything else in the house. He even offered her his room to decorate, but that frustrated her further.

She wasn't really mad about the room—she'd been in a weird mood all week. She'd literally been doing back flips for the infidels they called their peers, but she still hadn't made any friends. Lance didn't like to think that Kimmie counted. Yuck. That was a good Earth word—yuck. It conveniently described many creepy, awkward, annoying things in one neat syllable.

It described the whole day, really, but Lance was already taking it out on his body—pushups, situps, pull-ups, up, up, farther, farther. He wanted to feel completely exhausted tonight. He wanted to fall asleep quickly and guiltlessly. That was the one problem with him and the princess actually getting along. He felt guilty after their arguments now. She'd probably apologize in the morning; she was usually the first to apologize.

The exercises weren't really doing it. He had half a mind to sprint around the neighborhood, but he didn't want to leave his room. It represented the end of the road, end of the day, and leaving it would probably just give him too much space to think up apology speeches (which would replay horribly in his mind, each and every time). He had no gift for words.

What was wrong with this room? The space was terrific, and the mattress was fit for—well, not a princess, but a spoiled soldier. What's more, the room had all his equipment, a lock on the door, and a perfect view from the window. Lance wasn't used to windows—his barracks had been dark, sometimes underground, sometimes on ships (where the windows offered nothing but blackness; where no breeze could travel through on a hot and restless night).

His room was plain as paper, but maybe he had simple tastes.

Maybe you just get used that sort of thing.

Go here, go there, wear this, we'll stop here for the night. Lance was a military man for life, and the most decorated thing about him was his uniform. Rooms, houses—temporary objects, far-off things.

Lance stopped himself mid-curl, lifted himself up and relaxed his body. He made his way toward the closet. It was the one clean thing about his room—he had carefully emptied it of cobwebs and dust before hanging his uniform in the far back corner. It was the first thing he checked when he entered his room—to make sure it was still there, he guessed. To remember that he was a Galalunan lieutenant and not some drool-worthy high schooler. Yuck.

Sometimes it was hard remembering that Ilana was princess too. Or that she was not merely a precious object with "Caution" stamped all over her. But it was easy to forget that he was a capable lieutenant when he hadn't the faintest idea about handling the princess' strange requests and human pleas: he wasn't prepared for that. He wasn't prepared for her opinions, her…flaws.

It should have be easier, interacting with a robot and a higher-than-thou princess. That's what Lance had been prepared for; minimum socializing, just get the job done. Instead he encountered Ilana's feistiness and vulnerability, Octus' arrogance and Kimmie fetish, and, and, and friendship, for Tarax's sake!

Lance traced the bridge of his nose, sighing. He hated throwing wrenches into the whole thing, hated knowing that he was part of the occasional tiffs.

Well, what did she want? Posters, maybe (he still had that Alien Death Hammer thing). And he was sure he could have Octus do something to make his room more "personable." Oh—just, just. Lance resisted the urge to gag.

* * *

Sorry.

What was that, Lance?

I did put up a poster.

…

I can't read your thoughts, princess.

I accept your apology.

_You'll stop bugging me?_

Thanks, too. I was being childish again.

Nah, you were just being yourself.

…I'll ignore that. And I'm sorry too.

…

…

It was pleasant.

And he'd apologized first.

* * *

**Well, my fresh start in fanfiction has begun. Since my absence I've enrolled myself in several new fandoms. Namely: Sym-bionic Titan! I can't believe how much I like this show. Well, here's some IlanaXLance (platonic or otherwise). I've decided to give myself an ABC challenge on this one—this started as a drabble, but it's going to become A: Apology. Stay tuned for 26 more (hopefully).**


	2. B: Babel

Octus' exploration mode was unlimited, potentially. He was android in mental terms, strangely humanoid and limitless in material disguise (except, of course, for width). The shell had been an afterthought, the form irrelevant to the core: a soulless mind that could expand throughout space and dissect it at will, making billions of calculations in fractions of seconds.

The personality features were added as a sort of filter: Octus had to be a computer that could think for itself. He needed to make snap decisions when sorting through material (processing what was needed and permanently forgetting what was not), and in fighting with the Titan.

Thus, Octus could decide to spend his unlimited time doing unlimited searches, reaching across the galaxy and observing life and-.

Earth was infuriating!

Octus was tempted to dump all the information and save his screens from overloading. The sound samples played over and over again: J_e T'Aime, anatatachi, daru, mallo, behouni zoshi. _Something about love and crane and rainbow bridges. There were too many! Too many languages. Octus was sick, or fried, or—buzzed?— of cataloguing them.

How could one small planet house so many languages? Did this explain the hydras of kings and queens and, what were they, presidents?

What a fractured place, so many details in what could be simple, so much wasted on false unification efforts and on breaking things asunder. Octus shook his head. His mind was limitless, but it was bred for Galaluna. Though Earth was a startling fraternal twin, in many ways, to Octus' home planet, the place was still so very alien.

The King had no trouble ruling a planet. The peoples of Earth instead separated themselves into a complex interworking of various types of government, and so their sole obstacle was not distance, but language, culture, development. Galaluna, on the other hand, had grown together. Galaluna had perhaps three languages outside of its priority language, the King's speech, but all of those had come from the same source as the King's. There were some cultural differences between the farmers of the far north and the spirit-walkers of the west and those from across the sea, but they all considered themselves a part of the Galalunan kingdom.

Oh, Earth. _Ach, du_.

"Bless you, Octus," Ilana offered, walking by the kitchen where Octus chose to complete his freelance calculations.

A strange saying the princess had picked up. Into the search engine it went—faith and religion was a dusty subject for Octus, but it proved to be interesting. Particularly the origin stories—many of these were categorized as mythology.

One of the sub-layers of Octus' network made the connection between origin and language.

_TheTowerofBabel_1119_

_That is why it was called Babel—because there the LORD confused the language of the whole world. From there the LORD scattered them over the face of the whole earth._

Ah. A curse.

Octus was neither programmed to accept religion nor reject religion, but he was intimately familiar with Galaluna's beliefs in curses. To curse was to sever. Therefore unite Peoples, unite as one, unite as Heart, Body and Mind.

Octus shut off his grid, unlocked his sub-layers. Outside, sprinklers were hitting grass and lawn-chair legs, children were scraping across the sidewalk—the neighbors next door were speaking Castilian Spanish, and across the street Barb was actually quiet and still, and her oven might just go up in flames if she didn't wake up from her nap soon. Inside the house, Ilana was whispering something to herself, in words untranslated. The king's speech; the tongue of Galaluna, of perfectly blessed, Babel-less Galaluna.

If war continued, Galaluna could become the next Earth.

His shell shivered, and Octus began his search again—but reaching out, instead, to the far reaches of space, the coldest and the deadliest middles and ends from whence the Mutraddi seemed to come. Well, let them come. Let them come one by one, and we will scatter them all over this world. It will be a war of defiance, fought on the soil of another planet, for the war will be won with the Mind.

* * *

**Octus-centric! I'm proud of myself: I like this piece, and I have officially moved away from merely doing fluff/pairing pieces for fanfiction.**

**I can see the influences I had here. Finished "Speaker for the Dead" by Orson Scott Card, and my writing and subject matter has been affected heavily. This particular short was modeled slightly after the Jane chapter in Speaker.**

**Also, read "Daddy," a poem by Sylvia Plath. Thus, the _Ach du_, among other subtle things.**

**Had fun expanding on Galaluna and tying the concept the Body, Heart, and Mind fighting as one with Galaluna's history itself.**


	3. C: Cake

There was raspberry rugala cobbler, Dutch apple pie, coconut panna cotta, and yellow cake.

Ilana chose the inconspicuous desert and skittered back to Barb's coach. First of all, these earth women were actually _crazy_. Ilana had been thrilled by Barb's proposition of non-stop socializing, good company, and cultural stimulation (A.K.A. The Women's Bowling Team Book Club), even though Ilana was a bit wary of Barb herself. But at least the woman was relatable—in ways that Lance and Octus weren't, anyway.

Barb's friends…not so much.

So Ilana sat awkwardly in the middle of Barb's coach (just ready to be sandwiched between Hartman Hips Betty and On-a-Diet Jan). She cut daintily into the plain yellow cake. If there was anything she preferred unadorned it was dessert; she didn't have much of a sweet tooth. But even this cake was a little sweet for her tastes; Galalunan delicacies were more…subtle.

"Alright ladies, let's get down to business," Barb announced; _before_ cleansing her palette of cobbler, Ilana noted.

"I'll tell you about getting down!" Hartman Hips shook her waist with alarming flexibility, causing Ilana to suffocate between coach cushion and Jan.

"Not on the furniture, Betty," Barb chided, before muttering, "I'm still paying off that pool table,"  
The other women just laughed it off, except for Jan, who was apologizing to Ilana.

"The new books are in, just in case anyone was wondering," Barb commanded attention again, dumping a cardboard box onto the table.

"Get your fees in, ladies," she sing-songed, passing out the books. The women ooh-ed and ah-ed and shakalaka-ed while Barb explained the latest read:

"A man who may never see his family or homeland again. A princess who has lost everything. A quest of epic proportions—for war? Or for _love_?"

Barb placed the book in Ilana's hands and the girl looked at it intently, intrigued by the description. Across half of the cover was the bold, jagged title 'WARRIOR.' Ilana was further intrigued; she might even get Lance to read this! The picture below the title was also promising. There was a man, his physique in peak condition, and he had a simple but impressive sword in hand. Lance liked studying up on primitive fighting methods; he said it helped him develop different approaches or something.

While the ladies held separate conversations amongst themselves, discussing first impressions, Ilana dissected the author's bio. Hyacinth Duke, pen name of Dr. Louise Kramer, former theoretical physicist (Ilana might just rope Octus into this book reading thing too!), has always taken a guilty pleasure in Scottish lore and Fabio romance novels, and with her astonishing debut 'WARRIOR' she is sure to set herself up as one of America's most promising new romance writers!

Romance. Ilana decided that would be an interesting distraction.

"Shall we begin?" Barb set herself down in her arm chair, which placed her a good deal higher than everyone else.

"Lynette why don't you start us off?" Barb asked, "You have such a nice reading voice. You really know how to _emphasize_," The others raucously agreed (except, of course, Jan, who was already shyly reading ahead).

The book started out in a strangely over-the-top way; the beginning action had nothing to do with what followed, though it did capture the attention. Ilana reminded herself that every culture had a different way to telling stories. Besides, after the long introduction, the main character, Dougal, came in—his swords blazing and his words poetic and honorable. Dougal was especially clever, Ilana thought, with his convoluted speaking style and impressive vocabulary.

"Yeesh this is boring!" yelled Hartman Hips, right when Dougal was revealing the origins of his name—'dark stranger'—to the surprisingly relatable Princess Lassie.

"Yeah, skip to the bedroom already!" chimed the other ladies.

"It's on page 59," Barb announced, having already read through the scene several times, "A bit standard. Let's let the kid read," Ilana's head perked up—she'd missed most of what had been said, trying to decipher what Lassie meant by 'refusing to be deflowered.' She quickly flipped to page 59 (only two chapters later, really) and began reading.

"'Dougal, I don't like you touching me. I'm a princess, and you are—a warrior! Barbarian, how dare you fill my heart with shivers of ecstasy!' Dougal continued tracing circles on Lassie's back, moving slowly to unbutton her dress….'"

Ilana swallowed, quickly grazing to the bottom of the page. She felt something drop in her stomach. She pretended to cough to save time, and took a long sip of Barb's lemonade.

"Oh I forgot," Barb noticed Ilana's discomfort, "No boyfriend,"

The ladies gasped, "Shocker!".

"Jan, why don't you continue reading?" _Thank you Barb!_

Jan appeared startled.

"Oh, lost the page," Out of the corner of her eye, Ilana noticed Jan slip something out from between WARRIOR's pages—another book!—before she found page 59. And continued to the horrible conclusion, revealing to Ilana what deflowering meant.

"That's not even fan-yourself-worthy!" Betty moaned.

"The next one is on page 81," Barb updated, and this time Lynette read, added emphasis and all. Ilana wanted to choke on her fork—she forced herself to down her whole cake slice instead. What a relief that little desert was—it allowed Ilana to focus in on taste instead of hearing. By the end of the meeting Ilana had gone through a sliver of everything. She wasn't used to so much sugar—and the abnormal warmth of her cheeks wasn't making her feel any better.

"Well, I'll be seeing you Sunday at the Bowling Green, ladies," Barb gushed, "And don't forget your fees, please,"

Jan was the last to leave, and she caught Ilana just outside the kitchen.

"Seems you've already figured out my dirty little secret," Jan laughed nervously. Ilana noticed a smudge of chocolate on the woman's cheek.

"Sorry you had to endure that, hun," Jan said, wiping her face off, "To tell the truth, I'm only in this club for the free book bonuses," She held up the book she had been reading in WARRIOR's stead.

"Do all books have deceiving covers?" Ilana sighed, taking a closer look at Jan's book. Jan thought she was joking so she laughed.

"This one isn't trash, anyway," Jan said, "And it's not nearly as over-long. I just finished before Lynette stopped reading. You want to borrow it? Don't make that face—there's no sex. There's just some romance, and some action, and some very good people,"

The book looked less dangerous—the cover was simple, and the author was _not_ a former physicist. Ilana smiled; Jan was an honest person.

"I'd love to," she replied politely.

She tucked the book under her arm (determined to slip WARRIOR into a recycling cubicle) and quickly ducked out of Barb's house. She was glad they lived just across the street.

Lance opened the door almost as soon as she approached.

"Octus says you have a temperature of 100 degrees! Do you have any idea how much that is in nox?" Ilana was stunned for a moment—horribly, horribly aware of Lance's physical anatomy.

"I was at Barb's!" she ducked beneath his arm, skittering up the stairs.

"Never again!" she called, sealing herself in her room.

"Lance, don't," Octus commanded before Lance could bound up the stairs and demand that Ilana take herbs or something.

"You are only further inflaming her core temperature," Octus explained. Lance sighed heavily, feeling useless.

"Come on Lance," Octus remained cheerful, "Help me stir this cake mix! That'll cheer everyone up,"

* * *

NOTE: 'Nox' is a term I just made up for Galalulunan degrees. I figured it worked since it is associated with 'night' in mythology (and Galaluna—well LUNA = Moon), and it is of either Roman or Greek origin; much as Octus is.

Anyway, this one was awkward. I'm even second-guessing putting this one up here but I'll post it anyway. It's not my best writing, but I was determined to write something more light-hearted. Consider it practice.

Through all of this, I wanted Ilana's innocence shown. She DOES NOT want to tap Lance—she's just in an understandably disoriented mood.


	4. D: Dawn

Ilana had actually gotten a full night's rest.

The first barrier had been reworking her inner clock to adjust to a whole new planet.

The second barrier had been worry, of course. It was her chief virtue. Father, Galaluna, the next Mutraddi attack, the next mistake at high school, Lance, Octus. The last two could take care of themselves—but it was their collective worry for her that put in her into a frantic mood. Made her want to go and do something. Lance took things out physically. Ilana need to push, go forward, shout and fight and confirm her values—confirm her station in life.

So, it was getting herself to sleep less like a princess and more like a high school student, if that made any sense. Someone who had no worries on their mind, someone who had lived on Earth her entire life. Sometimes, when Ilana was bored—very, very bored—she would think up what Ilana Lunis' life had been like all these years. Lunis lost her mother when she was young (Ilana imagined it a much more poetic death than her own mother's had been), and that incident had started her brother Lance Lunis' overprotective and secluded nature. Ilana sometimes giggled at that. And then sobered. Because that story actually hit a little too close to home—for the both of them.

Ilana still had her father, her people. Lance had lost his mother and his father—and though he fought valiantly for Galaluna, he had still been distant, still held things between his heart and others'.

It didn't excuse his history, she thought—but she hadn't even thought about that! It had slipped her mind completely, these past few weeks. Ilana surprised herself by being calm, not rising to anger. She couldn't make herself feel angry. She supposed it had something with actually knowing Lance—instead of knowing the rumors about him.

It was dawn. Ilana wondered what had gotten into her—she felt as though her mind was still emerging from dreams, and these dreams turned to whispers and then turned to nothing. She couldn't remember after a few moments.

* * *

Lance awoke at sunrise—already bored to death. He peeled himself from his sheets, in no mood to eat or exercise or shower.

His room looked different with the lights orange and red—it was the most beautiful thing this planet had to offer, he thought. He actually set himself window-gazing, admiring the sunrise. Ilana might like this. Lance had half a mind to go and get her—the thought didn't intimidate him as it might have a few weeks before—but then he stopped himself. Ilana was never up at this hour. He knew she didn't sleep well. She needed her rest.

He took his mind off the sky after a while. Something caught at the corner of his eye—there was never much commotion this early in the morning—and Lance looked down to find an old couple walking themselves along the sidewalk. They looked almost alike, in that aging husband-and-wife way, and Lance wasn't sure if he found that creepy or endearing.

He admitted that he hated the thought of turning old—not that he'd ever given much thought past the present millisecond—but he supposed that if he had to pick his top three fears they would be 1) failing Ilana, 2) failing his father, and 3) getting old and decrepit and useless.

One eye pity, one eye disgust, he turned back to the old couple. What were they so happy about? They were dressed in jogging suits but they continued at the pace of a slug; one foot in the grave.

Yet they smiled and said nothing. Didn't need to say anything.

Lance blinked. The glare of the sun caught the old couple up; Lance turned away. He still felt like nothing—what was that feeling? Listlessness? He wasn't content. The thought of jogging around the neighborhood didn't improve his mood either; neither did breaking his push-up record, or practicing the new maneuver he'd developed. He didn't want to do anyth-.

He wished he could watch the sunrise with Ilana. He wouldn't feel so alone. And that would make her feel happy. It would make her feel happy and he wouldn't even have to think of anything to say.

He passed her door quietly on the way to the shower.

* * *

LOG DATE: 12 NOVEMBER, EARTH TIME. 32 LEENID, GALALUNA TIME. 5: 36 A.M. REBOOT—REBOOT—REBOOT—

Octus shifted quickly out of sleep mode. He took Ilana's status in first, bringing it to the forefront of his conscious. Then Lance. Then the house. The sensors. Finally, he took on shape and color. Tomato, tangerine, lemonade—the Earth (subcategory: Sherman Paints and Home Decorating) had already named these certain shades of color. Octus renamed them more practical names: Red 21, Orange 6, Yellow 99. Yellow was one of his favorite colors—loved cataloguing it anyway. He wasn't even sure if they constituted as a 'favorite,' but colors were one of the few irrelevant data bits he kept when he could have saved any other piece of valuable data.

He extended his core form, painting himself Mr. Lunis. He heard the shower running. Time to make breakfast.

EGGS—USUALLY CONSIST OF YELLOWS 2, 17, 36—

* * *

Galalunan dawns could get exceptionally long.

In the late days of Leenid, they were short.

Baron had actually turned down his father's offer this year—to spend his birthday at the family estate. Really, soldiers weren't allowed to do that. But Baron did and could do a lot of things soldiers shouldn't do. It was the difference between himself and the others, he told himself. It made him feel better, some nights.

Everyone thought he'd turned down the offer because he was finally putting the good of his troop before him. Because Galaluna was undergoing war. But Baron had really turned it down because he _could_—because the special treatment wasn't making him feel better anymore. So, another selfish reason. Baron smirked—was it really so easy to be a hero? Turn down a bit of luxury, play the part of a martyr.

_But the real battle isn't even here,_ Baron thought, turning himself over in his barrack. Sunlight broke through the shades of the window, willing him awake, willing him to face a lonely 32nd of Leenid. The bugles would sound soon.

Baron hadn't thought of Lance in a long time. The very mention of him had become a sort of mocking epithet in his own troop, and at Baron's influence of course. The whole of the Galalunan militia might have mixed feelings between the outcast lieutenant's dark demeanor and his fighting prowess, but Baron knew where he and his troop stood.

And to think that imbecile a member of the royal guard!

Baron brought a knuckle to his teeth, biting at the hard-earned calluses. The honor that brat, that orphan was shown. The favor of the king. The access to advanced weaponry. And a chance to actually see the Princess—not from below the palace balcony, one of the crowd; not from a cold corner of a crowded party, one of the crowd. Lance had been one of the few privileged to see the royal family on a daily basis. And now, he was the Princess' personal guard; probably watched over her day and night.

Baron found himself seething—fighting between the sweet pleasure of Ilana's image and the unresolved anger that came with Lance's mention.

Nobody had understood the King's decision, least of all Baron. And Baron had been the most hurt, following the King, at Ilana's departure. Always, always was she out of reach. Baron wondered how close Lance could get to her body, her heart-.

He laughed, the bunkmate above him stirring. The very thought of Lance and the Princess—like that!—was absurd, and it eased Baron's mind. He ridiculed Lance in any number of ways.

The bugle sounded, sharp and alert—ta-ran-ta-ra. In the late days of Leenid, the sunrises were especially short.

* * *

**Yep, Orson Scott Card's still on the brain: so I'm in a stark, sentiment-heavy mood.**

**Okay, all of these were fun to write—most of all Baron. Granted, that kid was a total douche. But he's still popular with the fandom. (And I love his character design, FYI). So, yeah, I played around with his unconfirmed canon. I don't ship Baron/Ilana, but I do find that angle on Baron's character interesting. The effect she has on Baron was based on a fanfic I read (by whom I can't remember!) where Ilana had a sort of mystical effect as princess, explaining why she was so important to the war. Or something like that.**

**Anyway, this was much better than my last entry, I have to say. Enjoy!**

**P.S. For all who have seen or listened to "Pirates of Penzance," I hope you enjoyed the ta-ran-ta-ra. Yeah, not very funny, but that song is stuck in my head!**


	5. E: Echelon

Sherman High's caste system was common-place, no longer interesting or even worthy of observation. Living it was far different from studying it.

Galaluna had a caste system, of sorts, though Ilana didn't think it very well applied to earth's definition. There were different types of people, yes, but when all their efforts were unifed for the greater whole it was difficult, and cheapening, to start allotting points of value and preference. To start a proper hierarchy.

The King was head, but still dependent upon his people. And the people had immense respect for the King. The lowest of Galaluna's society, then, were either coward or criminals.

As far as Ilana knew, there were only a few differences between being royalty and being a citizen. The King (or Queen), despite their birthright, had only as much power as the people gave them. Ilana's grandfather had been puppeteered man, but Ilana's father, well-loved and respected, had earned back the majority of power.

Ilana herself was radiant—upon Galalunan soil, anyway. Radiant in that she embodied her people's aesthetic preferences (upturned features, golden hair, dark eyes), as well as Galaluna's ideals. She was innocent and sincere in wanting rewarding lives for her people, a chance and a reason to move forward, for them to better themselves, unite. The Galalunans were both wildly romantic and practical, admiring fashion and warfare and speeches, and where Ilana spoke and moved she had proven Galalunan's two-headed philosophy. She had easy social graces, an enthusiastic beauty, and she was capable of defending herself. Everyone knew she could lead, even now, even at such a tender age. She was someone solid and simple and dependable and _radiant_. She was hope.

Ilana reminded herself of this when she was ensnared and pinned to the boys' bathroom floor.

She would have seen it coming, had she not been lost in the corridors of her father's castle, a couple of light-years and a Rift Gate away.

She scrambled up, more angry than frightened. The boys were laughing now, surprised at how easy it had been, and now they were making propositions. They weren't those jocks or so-called nerds, but an entirely new classification. These were the smooth-talkers, self-proclaimed pimps or something like that. The criminals of high school society. Ilana felt her dignity white-hot, her pride, her skin white-hot.

Their spoke, indulgent and almost charming. They tried to impress her, the off-beat campus crusader, by stretching their vocabulary, giving her pet names. But when Ilana returned _her _vocabulary, flung with perfect Galalunan idioms, their faces fell—they were a few years younger now, cornered and ashamed.

This made them angry. Here they had a 99-pound girl outnumbered in the boys' bathroom, and she was telling them off. Let's make it quick, they said, let's take turns.

Ilana knew now, what they intended. In her naivety—or innocence—she thought they were only trying to pick a fight, to mock her, trying to alienate her further. But now she knew she was not a rival, too ambitious and too unpredictable. She was not a princess, well-loved and well-prepared for nasty outbreaks. She was merely female—a target.

They weren't going to get very far—a kiss, a caress, but it would have been enough for them. They'd be back: this loomed in their eyes. They'd get her eventually, like so many other girls.

So they grabbed her wrist, the first pulled her close and all their hands came at once. Ilana was frightened now. She didn't react.

Ilana convinced herself, much later, that she had hit her communicator at some point. She just couldn't believe what perfect timing he'd had—that he always seemed to have.

Lance burst through the door, effectively taking out one of the pack. What came next was art—every target picked out and knocked out and flung off in a different way, as Lance carved his way to the middle, to Ilana. She was only aware of movement, like wind caught in a tunnel—Lance's quick hits, the gasp from each victim. Then the pack was sprawled, their sneerless faces seemingly innocent.

Lance heaved a long time, when they all lay drooling on the floor. It was the run that had first winded him, and he hadn't been able to make himself breathe while he was throwing punches and simultaneously resisting the urge to just kill them all.

Finally, after a long while of catching himself, he looked at the princess.

He wasn't angry this time. He knew she hadn't just thrown herself into a fight; he knew she had been the unwitting victim in this. But _she_ was angry, and it took a few moments for her to figure out why. She was ashamed, and Lance was here to see it.

He watched the hall, making sure it was clear, and escorted her out. No one saw them, but all the walls-the clocks, the lockers, the posters, the fountains—they all seemed to have eyes. Ilana's hand was tight in Lance's, and she was angrier still that she couldn't let go. She didn't want to. She slowed her breathing.

This wouldn't break her. Everything else hadn't. She'd been able to deal with being on the bottom, because she believed she could work her way up. That' how life was—earning what you wanted. That's how being the princess was.

Only Ilana actually had skill at being a princess. She had no skill at being an acceptable high school student. And now—she knew she wouldn't have saved herself, not quickly enough, not before they had started.

She was not helpless. This screamed in her. Deep down, beneath fog, she knew this. But she couldn't return so swiftly, back to what she was and what she knew. She was still seeing their faces. She was still holding Lance's hand.

She wretched away from his clutch. Lance turned around almost immediately.

"Ilana, Newton needs to check on you,"

"His name is Octus!" Ilana cried, "Not Newton. And he's not even humanoid—it's all pretend. He's not my brother—and you aren't either!" _You're just a corporal who cares little for his people or their ideals, for what could make Galaluna better—you've no camaraderie whatsoever, no desire to look to the future, to make the most of the day, to follow the rules, to follow my lead sometime-._

He was beneath her, always had been. When Ilana's mother had died, she hadn't turned to herself, hadn't turned cold and selfish, as Lance had done at his father's death. She had opened herself to everyone— to her beloved people, to these harsh and confusing and defenseless earthlings. She had taken life by the reins. But this boy, this impossibly gifted boy, he flaunted nothing. Cared for nothing. He chose isolation and arrogance. She was more than that.

Class was going on. The rooms were loud, the doors thick—shadows bobbed behind the little glass windows. The hall was empty, and their conversation safe. Lance found a bench, and then his hands found his face.

"I'm sorry," he said, low, still out-of-breath. When he spoke, Ilana noticed a fresh scratch, just a tiny one, at the corner of his mouth.

He had just saved her. Ilaan looked down at her communicator. Nothing indicated that it had been turned on. But that must have been it. So she stared at the watch a long time, not wanting to look at him, for she felt her face was hot. She was so ashamed. Lance had saved her from being used. But what could she do to forgive herself, which she knew she ought to do, when had no desire, when she was still angry at everyone and everything?

When Ilana spoke with generals, and withered soldiers, retired citizens, noblemen and delegates—when she had spoken to Lance's father, long, long ago—she had known what to do, and had done so enchantingly.

She walked towards Lance and found his hand again, before she could think too long about it. She second-guessed herself immediately, but she just gave his hand a squeeze and refused to take it back. She felt so shy and clumsy, so unskilled all of the sudden, and she wanted to be anywhere, alone.

He had looked up, expecting her words to flow and fill him up, as she had done with those other withered soldiers. Ilana tried to find _their _looks in Lance's face, but all she saw were his eyes, impossibly dark. Reflecting all light, quivering they seemed—as though he were a sinner before a priestess. Really! He had saved _her_.

His absurdity unraveled her, and she felt something cool pass from her head to her chest, to her hands and to her toes. Holding his hand seemed too polite, too insignificant, and so she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. He was startled, childishly so, and that made her laugh. It was a small, dry laugh, because they were both still tired and disoriented. But the worst of it was over now.

"You saved me. Thanks, corporal," Her laughter, her gratitude had revived him. But when she called him corporal, so respectfully, so happily, as she had done with the soldiers she had helped, the ones she acknowledged as true Galalunan heroes—Lance felt breath return to his chest. He hugged Ilana back, quickly (he was as good with hugs as he was with words).

"Shouldn't you see the nurse?" Lance asked, when they parted.

"I'm fine, really," Ilana waved her hand, "Though I feel like taking a shower,"

"I'll drive you home," Lance stood up.

"But school's still going on!"

"It's last bell. And it's a little late to be heading in now,"

"…What about Newton, then?"

"He can get to the house in three minutes, if he really wanted to. Besides, I'm sure he has something planned with what's-her-name," Ilana laughed, a real laugh.

"Alright," she said, "But just this once. And no speeding, or running the wrong lights," He gave her a salute, and she couldn't remember him doing something so lightheartedly. She wanted to hold that hand, suddenly, again, but the effect would be lost now. She was just glad to return to herself. And Lance—she was learning about him all the time. The princess and the outcast—both fighting Galaluna's far-off war.

And if Lance cared about anything—well, he hadn't made sense of or words for it yet. He grinned, though, and followed all those inane driving rules because of it. He rode home like a Galalunan corporal.

* * *

**My original for E actually _was_ Empathy, but I couldn't think of anything specific enough. So, I remembered dear old vocab list 'echelon.' A.K.A. noun, a level of command, authority, or rank. It applies more to the military, but since the main focus here was Ilana and Ilana/Lance, it didn't delve into Lance's adventures as corporal. I had been wanting to do something exploring Galaluna's caste system anyway (I was intrigued when Lance called our high school regime 'barbaric', and as though Galaluna had long since moved past that. I believe it has something to do with uniting Heart, Body, and Mind, but I explored that in chappie 2).**

**Anyway, this chapter went through immense pains to get here. My USB didn't work, so I hand-copied this whole chapter and retyped it on the computer. Hope I didn't miss anything!**


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